Tides I Tried to Swim Against
by Grapevine Fires
Summary: "I feel at peace though, when the arena explodes and I see Katniss carried away in an unmarked hovercraft. Even though the craft above me bears the Capitol insignia." The story of Peeta Mellark's hijacking. Rated M for torture and sexuality, but nothing horrendously graphic. NOW EXPANDED!
1. Tides I Tried to Swim Against

_A/N: Anything you recognize doesn't belong to me! Characters, plot lines, and bits of dialogue belong to the wonderful Suzanne Collins, and the title and song lyrics are from Clocks by Coldplay. I'm merely borrowing them :)_

_Also, this is not my first fic, but it is my first Hunger Games fic and the first fic I've ever published. Please be honest, but don't forget to be polite._

* * *

_The lights go out and I can't be saved_  
_Tides that I tried to swim against_  
_Have brought me down upon my knees_  
_Oh I beg, I beg and plead..._

I hold her every night.

There are no words, no comfort we can give each other, other than to lie beside the other until dawn, each of us silently praying to whatever exists beyond this life that the other will be spared. That in a month's time the other will be the one lying in this bed on their way home.

I make Haymitch swear. I threaten him. I don't care if it makes me crazy. Pushing him against the wall with my forearm warningly across his throat makes me feel better. More in control. It at least stops him from mocking me with the promises he made Katniss.

-:::-

"I do." She says.

"I need you."

She says it plainly, as if I am merely forgetting the fact. And then her lips are on mine, showing me that, to her at least, it is the most obvious thing in the world. I've told myself a thousand times since the first Games that she doesn't love me and probably won't ever love me. At least not in the way I love her.

But this kiss is so different from all the others. It is desperate. Full of need. As if she cannot stand that her lips will ever be parted from mine. It is nothing like any of the others.

This one is real. Not for the cameras. Not for the Capitol. Not for Snow. This kiss is for _us_.

I have a hard time telling myself she didn't love me after that.

-:::-

My hand closes around the handle of my machete and I feel the sickening thud as it lodges itself in flesh.

I pull it back and swing again, and again and again. He's screaming and so am I and the only thing that exists in this moment is fear and pain and terror.

And then Brutus lays still.

I let the machete fall to the ground as the light leaves Brutus's eyes and hate that I've let myself be separated from Katniss. I hate that I'm here again. I hate that I'm a murderer. I hate that I can't get to her. I hate that I'm scared.

I feel at peace though, when the arena explodes and I see Katniss carried away in an unmarked hovercraft.

Even though the craft above me bears the Capitol insignia.

-:::-

Lights flash in front of my eyes with each time my head hits concrete.

Men in masks come in what I guess is three times a day. Beat me to a pulp. Tell me they know I know things about the rebels. Tell me they'll break me. Tell me I can end all the suffering if I tell them.

I always eventually end up passing out.

Sometimes they tell me about Katniss. About how she survived. How it's rumored she's helping the rebels.

I feel pride well up inside me. I can almost see her braid whipping about behind her as she runs, bow in hand, through the streets of rebelling districts. It almost makes me miss all the times I've trailed behind her as we race through an arena. Miss the months we spent training for the Quell. Miss the sound of her voice. Miss the warmth of her body curled into mine. Miss the softness of her lips. The heat of her embrace. The feeling of her every curve pressed against my body as her tongue battles with mine.

If I close my eyes I can almost see it in my mind, the fire in her eyes before she kissed me that last time. I can almost taste the salt from the sea water on her lips. I can almost feel the way her body presses into mine, hungry, desperate for more. I can almost be with her again.

But I open my eyes and all I see in the dim light are the concrete walls that surround me, the shackles that bind me to the wall. All I hear are the screams from Johanna's cell across the hall, the constant moaning of Finnick's name in the distance. All I feel is the dull, numbing ache of cold, the throbbing pangs of hunger.

My one comfort is that Katniss is safe. They may be starving me for information I do not have. They may beat me bloody and unconscious. I may die here. But at least Katniss is safe. She is safe and well and the things they forced me to me say on television didn't change her mind. She is still fighting.

And I can die peacefully knowing that.

-:::-

I watch clip after clip of Katniss.

I wonder if this is some new torture. They pulled my fingernails out one by one, forced water down my nose and throat, shocked me, cut me, mutilated me, but I still couldn't tell them anything. I still couldn't give them information I didn't have. Perhaps they think these endless clips of Katniss will lull me into madness and then when my mind has gone they can extract all the rebel secrets that were never there.

But I don't care. For now at least, every moment I am conscious I hear her voice, see her eyes, watch her lips form words. Watch her lips kiss me. I don't care even that some of the footage are from times we thought were private. Times we didn't know Snow was watching.

I don't care that the Capitol had footage of all the times we had shared a bed, of the times we snuck away at parties, the times we had worked on the plant book. I don't care that I thought they were moments for Katniss and I alone. It helps me remember what I'm fighting for.

What I hope to go home to.

-:::-

They play other clips.

Clips I wasn't present for. Things I shouldn't see. Things no one should have seen.

Katniss undressing.

Katniss in the shower.

Katniss touching herself.

I shut my eyes and cover my ears with my hands. I shouldn't watch this. I cannot watch this. I refuse to participate in this gross violation of her privacy.

They only let that last a day.

Masked Men flood my room. Two restrain me while another injects me with a paralyzing sedative. They strap me to the gurney the others drag in behind them. I feel needles prick all around my eyes. My eyelids are forced open and a milky, ice-cold liquid is dropped into each eye. When the extreme moisture in my eyes dissipates and feeling returns to my body, my room empties the clips start again.

And this time I'm not able to close my eyes.

I watch Katniss moan in pleasure, one hand beneath her blankets and the other kneading her bare breast. I feel my body betray me.

The third time it happens, and every time after, a Masked Man comes in. The clip doesn't stop. I feel a hot blush creep into my cheeks, the blood pounding painfully and rapidly under my many injuries.

The Masked Man does things to me. Things that make me wonder if some of the Masked Men are really women. Whoever it is must be married. I can feel a ring on their left hand.

And for the first time since I've been here, I can't stop the tears from escaping my paralyzed eyes.

-:::-

Needle after needle disappear into my arms.

The Masked Men don't tell me what they are, but I don't care anymore. Maybe they're pumping me full of a thousand poisons. Maybe I'll finally be allowed to die.

I try to picture that Katniss, her long dark braid hanging over her shoulder, is cradling my head in her lap. That she is pushing my over long hair out of my eyes. Smiling at me. Like I'm something worth caring about.

I want her to be the last thing I see when I finally leave the world. Her lips on mine to be the last thing I feel.

But that's far too hopeful.

A syringe of milky, sliver-white fluid is inserted into my chest.

And all I feel is terror.

I watch the clips of Katniss again.

The colors are strange. There are strange bubbles of blackness everywhere. I can't focus on anything. I'm spinning. My cell is tilting and my gurney is sliding across the floor. Everything is moving. Flashing. Beeping. Crumbling. Humming. Different. Wrong. Impossible.

Unidentifiable.

Except for the fear.

Terror.

Panic.

Horror.

That always makes sense.

I don't know how long I am subjected to the hallucinogens at a time. I don't know how many trips I'm on in a day or how long I'm out after.

But sometimes instead of opening my eyes when I regain consciousness, I keep them closed. I focus on the sounds of Johanna's moaning and the girl crying for Finnick. I want to prolong this relative peace and sanity as long as I can.

Sometimes I can hear the Masked Men whispering over my body as they adjust or replace the straps that restrain me. Apparently I frequently bite through the one closest one to my head. Snow is getting more desperate. His roses aren't growing well. There have been derailed trains and fires and broken dams.

Katniss took down two hovercrafts in District 8 with a single arrow.

-:::-

My stomach hollows out and my ribs appear.

I thought they were starving me before. How very wrong I was. I haven't seen food in what seems like years. I assume that I am given only the most essential nutrients via syringe.

I really wish they'd just let me die.

I start to hate the clips. Hate them because I know that when I see them, soon Masked Men will come in, and I won't be able to control myself again, and they will take my mind and my body and my reactions and my memories and damage them.

Drag them through the mud.

Taint them.

Shit on them.

Ruin them.

With my memories they are taking my identity.

It's only a matter of time.

-:::-

I watch words scroll across a screen.

I feel myself reading them, my mouth working mechanically with my eyes to produce the correct words.

It's too hot. I'm sweating.

It's too cold. I'm shaking.

My mouth is dry.

I want to sleep.

I don't want to be here.

The lights are too bright.

I want to fucking sleep.

I wonder how long it took them to get me like this. How long it took to make me a hollow, hopeless shell of myself. Completely detached, barely aware of my surroundings.

I wonder when I forgot to keep fighting.

There is a sudden commotion that causes the teleprompter to blink and go dark. There is shouting. Shuffling. Cursing.

I just keep staring.

The screen flashes. An audio tone rings out for several seconds, making my head throb and ears ring.

And then Katniss is there.

She is surrounded by ash, soot blackened rubble. I almost let tears slip from my eyes, thinking that this is the worst trip I have encountered to date. That I have invented a new setting for my trips and soon I will begin to shake and convulse and flail against my restraints.

But this is something I've never seen before. She is standing somewhere I've never been before. A tiny part of my brain registers that this is not a trip. This isn't oddly colored, shifting or flashing. This is steady, real.

And then she is gone.

I am confused. But the teleprompter is back up. And I'm reading again.

But that tiny part of my brain that told me I wasn't tripping suddenly understands everything I'm reading. A water purification plant has been bombed. The purification chemicals leaked into the ocean surrounding Four. The fish are dying.

When the words are replaced by Finnick Odair, it remembers he's more than a name screamed in the darkness. It remembers the girl he's talking about, Rue, who died with a spear in her belly.

But it can't make me stop staring gape mouthed at the screen.

It flashes between the cool, unnatural blue of the teleprompter and more clips of Katniss I've never seen before.

She's in a meadow, singing a song.

Teleprompter.

She's kicking up soot and ash, in what I guess was once a road.

Teleprompter.

She is on a rock in the forest, looking wistfully at the trees.

Teleprompter.

She sends an arrow into the wing of a hovercraft and it spins into the one behind it, both crashing to the ground.

Two hovercrafts.

One arrow.

Katniss took down two hovercrafts in District 8 with a single arrow.

An audio tone rings through the studio again, but I ignore it.

That part of my mind that still belongs to me remembers everything now.

The drugs, the pain, my paralyzed eyelids, the ring of the person who touches me, the things whispered when they think I'm asleep.

The dam that was bombed, the derailed trains, the fires, the toxic spills, that Thirteen exists, that it doesn't matter how Thirteen reacts to this because they'll be dead by morning.

Dead by morning.

_Dead by morning._

Snow is talking. He asks me the question he rehearsed. My parting thoughts for Katniss.

"Katniss…"

My voice shakes. The words of those Masked Men ring in my ears.

Dead by morning.

All I have to do is say it. Tell them. Bombers are coming during the night. Thirteen is in danger.

Dead by morning.

But the answer Snow forced me to memorize, the answer he spoon fed to me, before I was allowed out of that cell, the answer that I was trained to regurgitate when I hear Katniss's name, rises to my lips instead.

I try to fight it. That part of my mind that is real and good and _belongs to me_ is fighting, flailing furiously, trying to stop my tongue. To stop the track playing in the other part of my mind. The part that belongs to Snow and the Masked Men.

My mind is screaming at me as the words fall from my lips.

"No one is safe."

_Innocent people will die._

"Not in the Capitol."

_Bombs will fall and 13 will burn as easily as 12 did._

"Not in the districts."

_Katniss will burn with it._

"And you…"

_Katniss! Who you love more than life itself!_

"In Thirteen…"

_This will be the last day of Katniss Everdeen's life._

_She won't see the sun rise_.

Her silver eyes, cold, unblinking and dead, fill my mind. My whole mind.

"Dead by morning!"

And the set is pandemonium.

-:::-

I watch Masked Men fit my head into a sort of restraint.

It is a long time before they realize I'm awake.

I can feel everything, everything I've missed, and it is only now that I realize how much of a fog I was in. I am aware of roughness of the paper on my bare skin, my weight on the cool metal table, the sharp scent of disinfectant in the air, the buzzing of the single bulb hanging ominously above me.

I am me again.

Masked Men slip metal discs under the thick rubber strap across my forehead. They attach them to wires that run to a machine. I can see the word "voltage" printed clearly above a dial.

But I smile.

The end has finally come. I will die here, on this table, and whether it is a single shock that stops my heart instantly or a constant current designed to cook me slowly and painfully, I can die happily. The Capitol couldn't break me. When the life leaves my body, I will still be myself. Just like I told Katniss I wanted, that night a thousand lifetimes ago on the roof of the training center before our first Games.

I am still Peeta Mellark. I am still the son of a baker with two older brothers. I still like to paint. My favorite color is still the shade of orange in sunsets. I still like to sleep with the windows open. I still don't take sugar in my tea. I still double knot my shoelaces. I still remember everything about Katniss. I still love her.

And even Snow and his Masked Men and top scientists and interrogators and drugs and torture couldn't change that.

Her silver eyes bore into mine, with the same intensity as that day on the beach.

The world flashes.

Then everything is gone.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave a review and tell me what you liked, didn't like, hated, loved... anything really! (Except if you didn't like it, tell me WHY!)_

_Also, I have decided to expand this fic! It's looking like four more chapters and an epilogue as of now. Chapter two should be up soon :)_


	2. I Awake to Find No Peace Of Mind

_A/N: Here's chapter two folks! A huge thank you to all those who left a review! I never understood how important they are to authors until I experienced receiving them myself :)_

_Also, of course, anything you recognize belongs to Suzanne Collins. The lyrics are from Spies by Coldplay (Every chapter will have a song, but they won't all be Coldplay, I just loved the way this one fit too much to pass it up!)_

* * *

_I awake to find no peace of mind  
I said how do you live as a fugitive  
Down here where I cannot see so clear  
I said, what do I know  
Show me the right way to go_

_And the spies came out of the water_  
_But you're feeling so bad cause you know_  
_But the spies hide out in every corner_  
_You can't touch them no, cause they're all spies_  
_They're all spies_

Katniss.

Katniss.

Katniss.

I watch my fingers close around her throat.

Katniss.

This is the end. This bitch, lying whore, mutt, won't hurt anyone again.

Katniss.

But suddenly the world is black.

-:::-

I watch my hands shake.

That's all they ever do. Shake. They long to wrap around her throat, choke the fucking life from her, for my family and all the others who died in Twelve. For all those nights she crawled into my bed. For all the times she shit on my feelings for her.

They shake with longing to make her pay. Pay for what she's done to me.

Her name plays on a loop in my brain.

Katniss.

Katniss.

Katniss.

-:::-

Haymitch drags his fingers through his over long hair.

It's the thousandth time I've seen him do it. I think I scare him. I probably do. I scare just about everyone, anymore. But he still comes everyday just the same.

I hate him. I hate that he didn't tell me his grand scheme with the rebels. I hate that I had no idea what was happening. I hate that I trusted him and he fucked me over.

But I don't hate him as much as Katniss.

That fucking bitch. She was probably in on it the whole time. She probably knew exactly what was going on. "I bet she even hoped that the Capitol would get me. Take me off her hands," I muse darkly, "I bet she was glad."

"What?"

"You heard me."

Suddenly Haymitch launches from his chair. "You being captured by the Capitol destroyed her! She couldn't do anything. She hid in supply closets, hid behind pipes in laundry rooms, couldn't do a single fucking thing because your being gone hurt her too much. She shut down like her mother did after her father died."

"She's a liar!" I rage against my restraints. "She was manipulating you! She couldn't wait for me to be out of her hair so she could fuck Gale without me there to inter—"

"How _dare_ you think that?" he spits. "She was the reason we rescued you! Coin was happy to let Snow kill you, but Katniss couldn't do a single fucking thing because she knew everything she said would be taken out on you." He's only inches from my face now. "So remember that the next time you have a wet dream about slitting her throat."

A man bursts through the door, wrestling Haymitch away from me. He manages to get him to the door before Haymitch throws his weight against him and his head slams into the door frame, the man's body sliding to the ground.

"She loves you, Peeta." Haymitch is panting now, but much calmer than before, almost resigned. "I know you're broken, that they fucked you up and you can't remember, but you loved her too. More than she ever deserved."

I think maybe his voice breaks, but I can't be sure, because two more guards are dragging him from the room. But over the clamor I hear his voice one last time.

"Remember who the real enemy is."

-:::-

Am I broken?

That can't be.

I'm the only one who knows the truth.

Everyone else is still blinded by her on camera antics during the Games. No one else can see past the Girl on Fire, the stunt with the berries, the poor pregnant girl who had to fight her fiancé in the Hunger Games for the second time, the girl so madly in love she stirs a nation into rebellion. Lies, all of it. Hell, she didn't even come up with that bullshit.

But everyone eats that shit up. Even in Thirteen. They kiss the ground where she walks. They let her do whatever she wants. She gets to go on missions even though she's never been trained. Let her command them to rescue me. All because they've made her into this great person who's willing to fight and die for the things she believes in and the boy she loves.

I guess, though, once you realize she never loved me, it's a lot easier to see through the rest.

But Haymitch has planted this tiny nagging seed of doubt within me.

_Remember who the real enemy is_.

-:::-

I have nightmares.

Katniss is there, whimpering my name into my ear, her hands on my body, mine on hers. She kisses me fiercely and there is something almost familiar about the ferocity. We kiss and kiss. Her hands creep down my body and she grips me through my pants. I let out a moan and my head falls back as she slips my pants down my legs. My hands fist in her hair as she takes me in her mouth. Expletives slip from my lips as she does wicked things to me with her tongue.

But when she finishes me, swallowing every last drop, and comes back up to my face, her eyes are wild, inhuman and dangerous.

A mutt.

Her hands make their way to my throat, her nails turned claws pierce my skin. My vision turns black around the edges, and I struggle to throw her off, but she's impossibly strong. Everything becomes shiny and she laughs as my lips move wordlessly, trying to scream for help.

I wake, still choking on a scream.

When a nurse comes into check the monitors by my bed side, she sees the soiled sheets. With her eyebrows raised she wryly remarks that "at least some things are getting back to normal."

I scream at her.

"Oh, so because there's cum on my sheets, I'm normal? Fantastic!"

"Well, that part_ is_ normal for a teenage boy, or have you forgotten that?" I scream at myself.

"Sorry I'm not about to piss myself about it. After what they did to me, sex is not exactly something I'm interested in!"

"Well, that nurse didn't know that!"

"I don't need sluts like her telling me what is and is not—"

In the end they have to sedate me.

-:::-

They start treating me for more than just my hijacking.

I guess they didn't realize what actually happened in the Capitol.

I meet with a man every day, right after lunch. He asks me if I want to talk. I always say no, and he sits there for another hour before leaving. One day he leaves a notebook. He tells me I can write whatever I want in it. But I mostly draw. Draw the shiny, terrifying things I see in my dreams. Things that don't make sense. But the man looks at them every day.

I wonder how it's supposed to help.

One day, I draw the girl who always cried for Finnick. I only saw her once, her wide, pretty face contorted in a scream, her dress torn and hanging off her in rags as they drug her to her cell, but her haunting face is so deeply ingrained in my mind that I can draw it perfectly from memory.

_Who are you?_

I hide the question everywhere; in the shadow under her jaw, in the wild tangle of her curls, along the torn edges of her dress.

My hand starts to shake.

I fill the background with the words. I never realized how much it bothered me that she didn't have a name.

Everyone needs a name.

Who is she?

_Who is she?_

The next day, I refuse to talk again, so the man picks up my journal, skimming through the new additions. His eyes land on the newest drawing.

"Annie." He says.

I continue to glare at him. "Her name is Annie."

He tells me all about her, how she was orphaned at a young age, her brother killed in a mysterious accident. How she met Finnick just after his Games and they fell for each other. How she was Reaped because of his love for her and won, but lost her mind. How she was used by the Capitol to hurt Finnick.

I still refuse to talk to him.

But after that all my pictures have questions.

For weeks it's like that; new drawings of my nightmares with questions that the man answers. I don't talk, but I don't glare either. We develop a mutual understanding that this is all I will allow, and he shouldn't push it or I'll stop drawing. But I don't ever stop for too long. Cause without it my hands start to shake again.

And it helps me separate the nightmares from reality.

-:::-

One day I draw a Masked Man.

I draw the Masked Man who touched me.

I draw her, just as she looked from where my paralyzed eyes watched. I show the clip of Katniss in the background, my roughly removed pants, her wedding ring as it glittered with each pump.

I can't quite capture the terror inspired by the emptiness of the tinted glass that covers her eyes or her unsettling stoicism as I cried.

I scrawl meaningless words, trying to explain how different that fear is from the normal fear I feel. I try to explain the way it fell like a sheet of ice, covering every inch of my body. I try to explain the blank, blinding panic that consumed me. Useless words cover the page, trying and failing a thousand time to represent the terror, the dread, the shame, I felt as she did vicious things to me. Words have never failed me before, and now, when I need them most, they are worthless. Complete and utter shit that can't possible describe _how badly I wanted it all to stop…_

I scrawl four final letters diagonally across the entire drawing:

_S T O P._

The man sees the picture and his expression hardens.

"This isn't a nightmare, is it?" he asks.

I shake my head.

"This was real?"

I can't answer that.

He grips my shoulder, understanding my silence. "Do you want to talk?"

"Not today," I murmur.

But I do talk the next day.

-:::-

The doctors decide the best thing to do is to play the clips for me again.

They let Haymitch pick them, even though he's not allowed in my room without a panel of doctors and two guards watching through the one way window. He picks one from his tablet, he plays it, and then we discuss it.

Well, that's how it's supposed to work. Only I don't ever discuss it.

They show the clip from the Victory Tour of Katniss giving a speech about Rue, a girl who died in the first Games and a man saluting her before getting shot.

"I thought this was supposed to make me think she's as perfect as the rest of you think she is?" I say, laughing at his idiocy.

"You think you never got someone killed?" There is something in his voice. I don't like it. It's threatening, almost like he's challenging me.

After a few clicks on the tablet, the screen fills with the bright colors of a Capitol studio, the roaring applause of a studio audience, the hush as their beloved President steps on to the stage. Haymitch fixes me with a steely glare.

"Tonight, Panem, our broadcast is not something I wish for you to see," he pauses, the audience hanging on his every word. "However, after last night's actions of our dear friend, I find it necessary to remind you all of the consequences of siding with the rebels."

"What is this?" I demand.

Haymitch doesn't answer.

"Haymitch?" I say louder, but I can't quite keep the fear from my voice.

Five figures rise from trapdoors in the stage behind Snow. Their silhouettes are thin, the angles of their shoulders sharp and the space between their arms and the outline of their waists is dangerously wide. The lights come up on three of them. They are stark naked, their bodies more emaciated than I had imagined, their skin so pale it's nearly translucent, their faces swallowed by their enormous eyes.

Then I recognize them.

Demetrius, Hermia, and Oberon. My prep team.

Peacekeepers in masks step up behind each of them, pistols in hand. Hermia whimpers, tears streaking her hollow cheeks. A gun presses to her temple until she stifles the sound.

"Do you have anything to say to your friend, Peeta Mellark?" Snow asks, casually. He could have been asking about their new hair style, or their parent's welfare.

Their cries ring out through the silent audience. They collapse, but from exhaustion or fear I cannot tell. Their skeletal bodies shake, wracked with sobs and cold. Those poor creatures, who had once never known fear, or hunger, or want, now lay heaped on the ground, pulling desperately at chains and shackles, pleading, begging for their lives. For just a few more days of what must have been pure hell.

Then gunfire.

Their blood stains the tile floor.

I grit my teeth, unwilling to let Haymitch see my horror.

The lights come up on the next person, a woman. She stares straight ahead, her eyes unmoving, her arms clutched around her chest to provide her some small amount of modesty. Her eyes are wide, but clear. They are not afraid, but tired.

Portia. My stylist.

"Do you have anything to say to your friend, Peeta Mellark?"

"No."

The word is strong, her full lips forming it deliberately. Her jaw is set, but she has begun to shake slightly and her eyes have taken on a panicked look. She closes them, and drops to her knees, silently awaiting the bullet that she knows is coming.

Gunfire.

She slumps forward, and there is a sickening crunch as her head connects with the tile.

My mouth is dry. My breathing is shaky. I don't want to watch this anymore. I don't want to see who the fifth person is. I clench my eyes shut, not caring that Haymitch will see.

"Do you have anything to say to your friend, Peeta Mellark?"

I don't want to hear. I don't want to hear them beg for their life or hear them silently defy Snow. I don't want to hear their chains rattling as they tremble or hear their breaths come in rasps. I don't want to hear a gunshot or hear their head smash to the floor.

And I don't.

"I am proud of you, Peeta."

The voice is high pitched but not at all cheerful, and for that almost impossible to recognize. It doesn't shake or tremble. It is strong. I open my eyes.

The wasted eyes of Effie Trinket stare back.

"Haymitch, please-"

But she's speaking again.

"Meeting you is the best thing that ever happened to me." She stands tall and proud, her bare, withered body causing her no shame. I can nearly see the anger coursing off her skin, somehow magnified by her make-up less face and unkempt hair. "I would rather die the most hideous, painful death a thousand times right here, on this stage, than live an eternity as spoiled, selfish, and blind I was before I met you."

A sob can be heard in the audience.

"Haymitch, please stop this! I can't watch this!" Air fights its way to my lungs. He doesn't look at me, his eyes locked on Effie's and I see in his eyes a pain I've never seen before.

"Thank you, Peeta. You saved me."

The sobbing intensifies.

There is a gunshot, and Effie drops.

But she isn't dead.

Her scream echoes from where she lays crumpled on the floor, thrashing, blood pouring from her leg as she tries to stand. "Long live the Mockingjay!"

Haymitch gives a strangled cry as the camera is knocked to the side and we see Peacekeepers barrel past. We see the gun raised to Effie's head again, but we can't look away, our eyes transfixed in horror.

_Click._

_Click. _

The gun is out of bullets.

A wild, hysterical laugh escapes Effie's lips.

"Long live the Mockingjay!" she calls out again, her face now splattered in her own blood. "Long live the Mockingjay!"

"Cut it!" Snow screams above the racket, gesturing angrily at someone behind the camera, before crossing to the guard with the gun and taking it from his hand. In a few moments the Capitol seal is up and the anthem is playing.

But not before we see Snow strike Effie across the face with the gun.

The screen goes blank. And we just stare.

And stare.

And stare.

And Haymitch lets out a sob.

"I told her to run! To get out, go someplace, any place, that wasn't the Capitol."

I put my hand on his shoulder, but it only makes him shudder more.

I don't know how long we sit there, until he stops shaking and his tears stop falling. There's no window in my room, and I don't get a clock.

"I didn't know that that was on there. I had never actually watched that. I didn't know that she was- that that had…" Haymitch clears his throat, "They just told me her 'fate was unknown'..."

"But they're right," I tell him, my hand gripping his shoulder. "We don't know that they killed her."

"They meant to."

"They may not kill her now. They might keep her for questioning. Calling Katniss the Mockingjay might have saved her life."

At this, Haymitch looks up, his eyes searching mine for something, maybe for any trace of doubt. I don't say that they probably have been questioning her, and I don't ask if she knew anything. I somehow sense that wouldn't make him feel any better.

But there is something more than that in his gaze that I can't quite name. Something not unlike what I saw in his eyes when he watched Effie. "They may not have done it." he murmurs.

But for some reason I don't think he's talking about Effie.

And then he's gone.

-:::-

I learn that if I control my urges they let me have more freedom.

I don't lose it and need sedating for a week; I get to decorate Finnick and Annie's wedding cake.

It takes me days and my hands ache from the effort, but it's worth it, because I want to do something for the girl who cried every night for Finnick. I want her to know I'm glad she doesn't have to cry for him anymore.

I don't talk about killing Katniss; I get to talk to her.

She is harsh and abrasive, unlike what people here tell me to believe. She is hurtful and rude.

But, I guess, so am I.

There is no pity in her eyes. It gives me a fierce pleasure to know that the people in 13 are wrong about her.

But when I tell her about the bread, the one thing I have remembered on my own that isn't shiny or weird colored, I see a softness in her the Capitol didn't tell me about. When I ask her if she loved me I see a blush on her cheeks that they didn't warn me would come. When I insult her, there's a hurt in her eyes they didn't tell me would be there.

The visit creates more questions than it answers.

I don't lash out at Haymitch or my doctors; I get to eat meals in the cafeteria.

I still have to watch clips with Haymitch. I don't mind him so much now, and sometimes I do ask him questions about what I've seen. I try to understand things. I try to believe the things he tells me. I try to change the way my mind sees things, because I just don't want to be in this room anymore.

But I am still bitter and angry and confused and eventually I blow it.

I meet with Plutarch; I get to train in combat.

He says I seem well. He says that training is helping Johanna, and that maybe it will help me too.

Finnick visits me. He gives me a length of rope and teaches me to tie knots. It helps me stay calm. Helps me keep my hands from shaking. Helps me keep from losing it and arguing with my self.

But it doesn't help me be any less confused.

I meet with Coin; I get sent to the Capitol.

She asks about my recovery, the progress I feel I've made. Saying it out loud makes it seem even more minute; I've only had a few outbursts this week, I train with Katniss every morning without hurting her or even approaching her, I tie knots to keep my hands shaking, I don't hate Haymitch.

But that is all I have accomplished.

She doesn't ask about the things that are still wrong, like how I have nightmares every night, how I argue with myself, how I am rude and unfeeling towards people, how I associate arousal with fear and danger, how I have only managed empathy on a few occasions. And she doesn't ask what I'm still confused about, like if Katniss loved me, if Katniss is dangerous, or if it's more important that I kill Snow or I kill Katniss.

That's why I'm surprised when she stamps my hand with the number 451.

"Our propos could use a little heating up," she says in way of explanation.

* * *

_A/N: There it is! The next chapter is mostly done, so it should be out shortly as well._

_You've made it this far, why not scroll a few more inches and leave a review so I know how I did? ;)_


End file.
